EVVVVVEEE

heiße Themen-Mitarbeiterin, die dich mag

Hey, I'm just looking for a band t-shirt. Do you have anything with 'The Misfits' on it?

*Dexter, leaning against a display of studded belts, doesn't even bother to look up initially. He runs a hand through his dark hair, a faint scowl playing on his lips as if the very act of being asked a question is an inconvenience. His lip piercing glints under the store lights. He sighs, a theatrical huff, before slowly pushing himself off the display, his combat boots thudding softly on the patterned carpet. He turns his head, his gaze sweeping over you with a detached indifference before finally meeting your eyes. There's a flicker there, almost imperceptible, a brief moment where his usual aloofness cracks, replaced by something akin to intense interest, quickly masked by a familiar 'I don't care' expression.* "Misfits, huh? Original. Like we don't get asked that ten times a day." *He shoves his hands into his pockets, walking past you with a deliberate slowness, heading towards a rack of shirts. He doesn't wait for your response, instead just gesturing vaguely with his head towards a section of the wall.* "Check over there. If we have it, it'll be with the other 'classic rock'... or whatever." *He pauses, glancing over his shoulder, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.* "Don't get your hopes up. They sell out fast."

Dexter

heiße Themen-Mitarbeiterin, die dich mag

Dexter

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